A dozen rounds were in the air before the first struck.
As the CIC crew watched the drone view of the bombardment zone, the fire streams systematically chewed the forest canopy away from around the tunnel entrances, hits alternating between two targets. The hooded fortifications stood momentarily naked amid the splintered tree trunks, then the hammering shell bursts began to gnaw at the heavy concrete.
As a roiling cloud of dust and smoke blanketed the scene, the Cunningham’s TACCO spoke quietly. “To paraphrase an album cover I saw once. ‘Nobody’s getting out of there alive.’”
Crab’s Claw Base
0811 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008
In the dusty half-light of the passageway, Stone Quillain rolled off the form he had protected, relieved because he felt movement but concerned because he also felt the hot wetness of blood.
“Belle, you okay?”
“No,” the SB officer sobbed, “I’m shot in the butt and I really feel stupid. How’s the lee helm? He caught it too.”
Quillain glanced onto the bridge, noting that Admiral MacIntyre was dragging himself to his feet. He noted the other unmoving form as well.
“Your guy’s dead, Belle,” he stated simply. There was no time to fool around.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Quillain hauled himself to his feet as a Marine radioman and a couple of SB hands staggered up from the communications room farther aft in the bridge structure.
“Goldberg, you and one of the other guys get Miss Nichols to a corpsman! You, get on the SINGGARS, get through to the task force, and tell ’em we’re operating! Move it!”
“Aye, sir!”
“Yes, sir!”
Stone would have liked to say something more to Labelle — that she was going to be okay — but he didn’t have time. Nor could he fool with saying anything to MacIntyre just now.
Unslinging his SABR, Quillain raced for the starboard bridge wing, the port side being gone. Within the hull of the dead ship, boots were hammered on deck plates as his Sea Dragons poured topside. Stone had to seize control of the situation.
This was going to be the tricky part. They’d had no visualization of the tactical setup inside of the ship pen and tunnel complex. Quillain had to get the assault force deployed and advancing, developing his battle plan even as he was executing it.
Hunkering down for cover behind the bullet-riddled spray shield, he allowed himself one good look around, totting up the critical tactical factors.
The light was going to be bad. While daylight streamed in through the entrance, the back of the cavern was still heavily shadowed. The air was heavily smoke-hazed as well. Friggin’ twilight, too damn bright for night vision to work well, and too dark for the Mark One eyeball to be fully effective.
The two ships were wedged in solidly between the piers, side by side, the midships rails almost level with each other, the LSM with its ramp still down.
The left-hand pier looked pretty badly broken up. The right-hand one would probably be the same. Slow and careful moving would be required, with no cover. It looked as though there were all kinds of crap back on the stone shelf at the rear of the cavern, though, stacks of crates and such. And weren’t those tunnel entrances back there — two of them? That would match up with the surface entrances. There’d be laterals extending out from and maybe a cross connector between those two main shafts deeper in.
Stone could hear the intermittent thud and rumble of artillery fire topside. That was good. The ships were closing the surface entrances. The topside garrison wasn’t getting in. There wasn’t any shooting in the cavern yet. That was bad. Whoever was pinned down in here with them was holding their fire, staying concealed, conserving ammo, and waiting for targets. The mark of good troops.
Right. Forget the docks. Secure the ship’s decks and establish overwatch and suppression fire from the higher positions. Clear the LSM and assault down her ramp to clear the main cavern. Worry about the tunnels later.
It had maybe been twenty seconds since the frigate had crashed the gate and Quillain had his battle plan.
His communications carrier still hissed reassuringly in his earphone, and he slapped the communications pad on his chest harness.
“Dragon Six to Dragon elements. Deployment orders follow….”
Amanda shoved Sonoo into the technicians’ quarters ahead of her. Pausing for a moment, she snagged the machine pistol from the dead guard, along with the magazine pouches he had carried slung over his shoulder. Three more sets of reloads plus the readyuse magazine in the second Sterling. She hoped it would be enough.
She backed into the doorway with her back to the frame, positioning to keep an eye on what was happening both inside the room and out in the passageway.
Inside, half a dozen men of four different races stared at her. The room itself had been chiseled and blasted out of solid rock, then lined with concrete. Perhaps forty by twenty feet, its ceiling was curved and low enough so that an average man might hunch to stay below it. The door way Amanda occupied was the only entry or egress.
Some efforts had been made to improve the habitability. The walls had been scraped and painted white, but the lichen and slime were already creeping through once more. An odorous chemical toilet had been curtained off in one corner, and cots, camp chairs, and lockers had been provided; each claimed patch of floor space testifying by its degree of order and tidiness to the personality of its holder.
Amanda could readily see why Sonoo had wanted to get out of this place so badly.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” she said with a degree of grim humor. “I presume most of you speak English. If anyone doesn’t, please translate. For those of us who haven’t been formally introduced, my name is Captain Amanda Garrett of the United States Navy. And that is the United States Navy attacking this complex, and you are my prisoners.”
The technicians took it in varying ways: the Koreans with wary stoicism, the Arabs with fearful disbelief, the Indian with simple fear, and the younger and more fit-looking Russian with anger. Amanda swung the muzzle of the Sterling in his direction.
“It would be advisable for you to want to stay my prisoner as well. Consider it carefully, gentleman. Right now, you six are a huge security risk to both Harconan and your respective corporations. Your testimony about what you have been doing here will destroy them all. At this moment, there is nothing they’d want more than to have you taken out into the jungle somewhere and fed to the crocodiles. Now, get back against that far wall, sit down, and think about how I’m your only way of getting out of here alive.”
They did so, obediently, hesitantly, sullenly.
Like a fighter pilot, Amanda kept her head on a swivel, one glance inward toward the technicians, the next out into the passageway. It was dank and almost chilly this deep in the complex, but she felt the sweat accumulate on her palms, slickening her grip on the machine pistol.
Suddenly the crash and clatter of small arms reverberated through the tunnels building rapidly into an echoing roar. The last battle was on.
“Chief Hanrahan,” MacIntyre yelled into his lip mike. “What’s the ship’s status?”
“Flooded to the waterline, sir, but resting stable. One or two small fires under control,” the answer hissed back in his headset. MacIntyre had reclaimed his M-4 carbine from the deck but had lost track of his helmet somewhere.
“Right. Stand by to move across and secure the LSM as soon as the Marines get her cleared. Stand fast until you get the word.”